The Choice
by Aini NuFire
Summary: Post 12x19 "The Future" - It takes them a year to find Cas. Fix-it (Now with additional second chapter)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So, episode 12x19… I was really digging the idea that the unborn nephilim wanted Cas to be its protector, until it mind-whammied him at the very end. And I know some people aren't convinced that's exactly what happened, but either way you spin it, the whole thing was squicky to me. So here's my attempt to deal with it.**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine. Thank you Miyth for beta reading!**

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"The Choice"

It takes them a year to find Cas.

Not long after he and Kelly had taken off, things with the British Men of Letters had come to a head, which had diverted Dean and Sam from searching for their friend. That fight…that fight had nearly destroyed them.

Then on May 18th, the alarms in the bunker had gone crazy. Given Sam's earlier calculations and predictions, they'd had a good idea what it all meant.

They tracked the source of the phenomenon to Colorado, but by the time they got there, the only thing they found was a fresh grave and a cross made of branches, "Kelly" etched carefully into the wood. The area was dotted with bluebells and lavender, and Dean could almost imagine Cas picking out this spot and reverently laying the mother of Lucifer's child to rest here.

And then there'd been silence for a long while. Dean and Sam had searched and searched, and came up with nothing. If the nephilim was planning to destroy the world, it was taking its dear sweet time.

When there were no omens or disasters as when Lucifer had risen from the Cage the first time, Sam suggested they start looking for other kinds of signs.

And that's how finally, a year later, they find themselves in a small county in Idaho where stories of people being miraculously healed have slowly begun to filter out into surrounding communities.

"So," Sam says to the woman they are interviewing. "This faith healer is a kid?"

The woman nods. "He's such a sweet boy. Always polite. I had a brain tumor, and then he laid his hands on my head and…" She breaks into an awed smile. "My doctors can't believe it."

Dean fidgets, because from what they've gathered, the Devil's son isn't out wreaking havoc and destruction. But it _had_ brainwashed Cas that night in the playground, Dean's sure of it. He just doesn't know what to make of…all this.

"His father is a nice man, too," the woman continues. "And so proud."

Dean's stomach curdles. "Yey high," he gestures, "dark hair, trench coat?"

"How'd you know?"

"We're old friends," Sam says quickly, and clears his throat in obvious discomfort. "We were really sad to hear about…the mom."

Sympathetic understanding fills her eyes. "Ah, I'd suspected she was gone. Dylan never talks about her, just gets sad when someone asks."

"Dylan is, uh, the boy?" Sam asks.

Now the woman squints at them. "Yes. I thought you were friends of the family?"

"He hadn't been born when we'd last seen Cas," Dean puts in hastily. He has no idea if the whole town has been mind-whammied into some kind of cult following, and doesn't want to arouse suspicions, not when they're finally so close.

She continues to eye them warily, but then her eyes widen a fraction. "Is that his name? Oh, I can't believe I never actually knew it. He just always dotes on Dylan, and what with the boy's gifts, that little angel gets all the attention." Her hand flutters over her hair in embarrassment.

Dean clenches his fist at "little angel" but manages to maintain the rest of his composure.

"Thanks for talking with us," Sam says with a strained smile, and then they're heading back to the Impala. They climb in, and Dean immediately pulls onto the road to take them into the woods. They've already sussed out that Cas and Baby Lucifer live in a cabin out there, isolated from everyone. Though they're not shy about coming into town to perform "miracles."

"Dean," Sam says carefully. "What's the plan?"

He tightens his hands around the steering wheel. "I don't know."

 _Get Cas back._

 _Right, how?_

Tires crunch over gravel as they approach the cabin. Dean's nerves are a jittery mess because they have no way to combat something as powerful as a nephilim, and Dean's half afraid that Cas will just knock them out again and take off.

Or worse.

He eases the car to a stop, and his heart lodges in his throat because there's a little boy sitting on the ground outside, waving a glowing hand back and forth as he makes the grass around him sprout and dance with flowers like he's conducting an orchestra. He looks about five years old; apparently nephilim have accelerated growth in and out of the womb.

But standing a few feet away and watching the boy with open adoration, is Cas, looking just the same as a year ago, except there's no weight to his shoulders, no lines of defeat on his face. He looks…content.

It makes Dean's stomach churn.

Cas looks up as he and Sam slowly get out of the car. "Dean. Sam," he says in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Dean's throat grows tighter. "Really? That's how you greet your best friends after a year?"

Cas tilts his head a fraction. "I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to stay away so long. But Dylan needed me." His gaze slides back to the child, a smile tugging at his mouth.

"Dylan, huh?" Dean manages. "You name him?"

"Yes. 'Dylan' means 'hope.'"

"Hope for what?" he can't help but say bitingly.

The boy stops playing with the flowers and looks up at them with a pinch between his brows. He has dark hair, like Kelly, and though Cas has apparently been parading around as his "dad," the kid doesn't look like Cas, which Dean is grateful for. He still doesn't know what he's doing here, just that he needs to get through to Cas somehow.

Cas's smile broadens. "A better world."

And Dean can't stop himself. "He's controlling you, Cas! Can't you see that?"

Cas just shakes his head in exasperation. "I wish you would understand, Dean. Dylan is doing good things; he's making the world a better place."

"Yeah, uh, we hear he's been healing people," Sam breaks in, taking the reins from Dean before he can lose his temper and escalate things beyond salvaging.

"Yes," Cas says, and there's a trace of pride and humility there.

"Castiel has been teaching me," the boy finally speaks, and Dean jolts, because now he has to shift from viewing this kid as a peripheral thing to be leery of, to evaluating him as an active threat.

Dylan gets to his feet and goes over to throw his arms around Cas's legs. Cas reaches an arm down to settle over the boy's shoulders.

"Cas, please, this isn't you," Dean pleads. "You have to fight it. We're family."

It's the argument they've always used, and yet this is the first time it feels hollow, because it's obvious that Cas no longer cares or _wants_ them as his family. He has a new one. As fake and subversive as it is. And Dean doesn't know how to combat that.

"You call helping the world controlling people like this?" he directs at the kid with bitter accusation.

Dylan frowns. "I don't control people. Castiel's been teaching me to heal them."

"But you're controlling him."

"Please," Sam speaks up. "Just let him go."

Dylan shakes his head vehemently and clings tighter to Cas. "I need him."

"For what?" Sam presses.

"To teach me," Dylan answers. "My mother…she died." His already high voice cracks. "Who else is going to look after me?"

Dean…doesn't know what to say to that. He simply stares stupidly at this kid, clinging to Cas like he's some guardian angel, some protector. He thinks about Cas teaching this kid how to help people. If the nephilim were controlling Cas completely, he wouldn't be open to learning those things from the angel.

"You chose Cas," Dean finds himself saying. Before Dylan had even been born, he'd chosen Cas over Dagon. How? Why? Because he'd sensed something in Cas? The angel's goodness, strength, heart?

Dylan nods. "And I won't let you take him away. I love him."

"Dylan, it's alright," Cas says. "No one is going to make me leave you."

"No, because he's making you stay," Dean counters. "He's turned you into a friggin' Stepford wife!"

Sam clears his throat and jumps in. "You love Cas, okay. But…when you brainwash someone into loving you back, that's not real. Real love is a choice."

Dylan's brow puckers.

Dean grits his teeth and focuses on the kid, because that's who he needs to get through to here. If that's even possible. "Sam's right. He, Cas, and I have been through a lot together. We've even hurt each other. But no matter what crap we've gone through, no matter how badly each of us has screwed up or hurt the others, we always choose to come back, to stay. Because that's real family. This—" he gestures sharply at Cas, "—is a lie. Cas stays because you want him to, not because he loves you back."

Sam shoots him a warning glare, but Dean doesn't care. He's seen Cas mind-whammied before, forced to do things he didn't want. And while raising Lucifer's kid may not be as bad as what Naomi made him do, it's still enslavement.

"Don't listen to him, Dylan," Cas says in a long-suffering tone. "Dean doesn't understand the big picture here. It's a character flaw."

Dean doesn't have the capacity to be indignant at that, because nothing that comes out of Cas's mouth can be taken seriously at this point.

But Dylan is frowning up at the angel, and Dean has to hope that it's because the kid knows, deep down, that Cas is just placating him by programmed rote.

The boy takes a small step back, disengaging from Cas's embrace. "Free will," he says tentatively.

"Yeah," Dean replies. "That's something Cas has fought, bled, and died for. Multiple times! He wouldn't want… _this_."

Dylan sucks on his bottom lip. "Castiel talks about it a lot. When he tells me stories about you two."

Dean's brows shoot upward at that, because somehow in all this, Cas hasn't completely forgotten them. But he doesn't say anything, just holds his breath and waits as the little boy seems to be working out a great puzzle.

After a few moments, Dylan's expression falls. "But," he starts in a frail voice. "He…he would hate me. For what I did."

Dean exchanges a glance with his brother, because yeah, waking up to find you'd been brainwashed for the past year is not going to have good results. Especially toward the one who'd done the manipulating. And Cas had been through this kind of thing so many times before, that Dean suddenly wonders if this will break him.

"No," Dylan says, shaking his head. "No. I don't want to be alone."

Sam's throat bobs, and he lets out a tense breath. "It's true, Cas will probably be upset at first. But…but that doesn't mean he's going to abandon you."

Sam flicks an uncertain look at Dean, but Dean doesn't know what to think anymore, either. He wants Cas back. He wants to hate the nephilim that took him away for a year. But he also doesn't want to leave such a powerful being out in the world to fend for himself, because there were a lot of bad influences out there. He thinks maybe they should go back to their plan of removing the kid's grace, except the miracles he'd performed seemed real. How many more people could Dylan potentially help?

"You- you chose Cas because he's good," Sam continues. "Because he's capable of love and forgiveness. So maybe you have to give him the chance to actually be that." He hesitates. "And, uh, no matter what happens, you won't be alone. Okay? Me and Dean will make sure you're taken care of."

Dylan scuffs his shoe in the dirt, looking up at Cas with pained eyes. Cas, for his part, doesn't say a single word, as though Dylan has suspended his favorite puppet in time while they debated his fate. Dean hates it.

 _Please. Please_ , he prays, because he has no other recourse.

Dylan suddenly hangs his head, and Cas blinks.

Dean's heart seizes as Cas's brows furrow in confusion and he looks around. "Cas?"

Cas's eyelids flutter dazedly. "Dean? What…?" His gaze falls on Dylan, and for a moment no one moves or breathes. And then Cas's face slackens in horror.

He stumbles back a step, and Dean lunges forward to catch him as Cas sinks to his knees. Dylan lets out a choked sob, and then Sam, who's made of stronger stuff than Dean, is scooping the kid up into his arms and carrying him a short distance away.

"Cas, hey." Dean presses his hands against the sides of Cas's head and tries to get him to focus. "It's okay, you're okay."

Cas's chest hitches, his eyes wide and devastated. "Dean…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"This was not your fault," Dean says fervently.

"I left you," Cas chokes out. "Oh god, I left you and Sam at the playground…after everything, I left you again…"

Dean abruptly pulls Cas into a fierce embrace, cutting off the frantic rambling. "It's okay." He cups the back of Cas's head as Cas shudders in his arms. "It's okay. It's okay," he repeats, because he needs Cas to believe it, needs for this not to be something that shatters his best friend completely. "You're back," Dean whispers in his ear. "I got you."

He doesn't know how long he keeps up the mantra, alternating the phrases over and over until Cas's shaking gradually lessens. And then Cas just sags against Dean, who closes his eyes against a swell of grief. Free will comes with pain, that's the rub. It has to be worth it, though.

It has to be.

Dean is starting to lose feeling in his legs, bent as they are. He moves his hand down to rub Cas's back. "Cas, do you remember the past year?" he asks softly.

Cas nods against Dean's shoulder.

Dean tightens his grip for a moment. "Is Dylan really trying to be good?" he whispers. He feels Cas stiffen, can only imagine the loathing and disgust Cas must be feeling at having been so violated, but Cas doesn't respond right away. When he does, his voice is shaky.

"I- I don't know. Maybe." He finally lifts his head, eyes glistening. "I- Dean, I'm so sorry."

"I told you, man, it _wasn't_ your fault."

Cas shakes his head. "I stole the Colt. I lied to you. I deserved far worse than this—"

Dean snaps and lashes out to grip Cas's arms forcefully. "Don't you ever think that, Cas. You didn't deserve this. Nothing you do would ever make you deserve something like this. I get it, okay? I get that you were desperate for a win. I've been there. Want a rerun of the Mark of Cain? But I forgive you. Me and Sam forgive you, and the only thing we care about now is getting you home safe."

Cas swallows hard and ducks his gaze for a moment, but then he looks up again and starts to compose himself. Because one thing that Cas has always known how to do is soldier on. He nods.

Dean's chest tightens, and he glances over his shoulder at Sam and Dylan a few yards away. They likely heard all that. And Dean knows what they need to talk about next, even though he'd rather bundle Cas up in the back of the Impala and hightail it out of there.

Instead he forces himself to let out a breath. "Okay. Okay." He shifts slightly to allow circulation back into his legs. "Can you get up?"

Cas wordlessly lets Dean help pull him to his feet. He can't seem to bring himself to look at Dylan. The kid's eyes are wet, Dean's surprised to note.

Dean clears his throat. "Dylan, you got something you want to say to Cas?" He can't believe he's doing this.

Dylan's lip trembles. "I'm sorry."

Cas flinches, but flicks a tense glance toward the kid. His jaw is tight, shoulders rigid.

"Sorry for what?" Sam prompts, and he, too, throws a bewildered look at Dean, because neither of them had expected to come out here for _this_.

"I'm…sorry I made you stay," Dylan says in a small voice. "When I first felt your grace touch mine, I knew you were the one who could take care of me. And that's the only thing I knew at the time." He gulps. "I see now that it was wrong. Please, please don't hate me, Castiel."

Dean watches Cas carefully, and for several long moments, the angel doesn't say anything. Cas said he remembers the past year, and Dean wonders how much of it was good. It certainly sounds like it was, for the most part.

Cas swallows hard. "I- I don't hate you," he says, but the words sound brittle.

Dylan, however, lights up ever so slightly and starts forward. Cas flinches again, and Dean reaches out to grasp his elbow reassuringly.

"Okay, okay, buddy." He turns to Dylan. "Why don't we take things slow?" he suggests. "You got any food in the cabin?"

Dylan looks disappointed, and shakes his head. "I don't eat."

Of course not.

"Okay, um…" Dean doesn't know who should go for food and who should stay with the rugrat. He's not certain he fully trusts the kid not to mind whammy Cas again, or anyone else, for that matter. "Maybe we can get a pizza delivered out here. Just because you don't eat doesn't mean you can't enjoy food, right?"

Dylan cants his head, and some of his despondency starts to dissipate. "Mhm, okay!"

"Okay." Dean gives Sam a meaningful look, and his brother subtly nods in return.

"Um, Dylan, can you show me around inside? It looks like a nice place to live."

Dylan's mouth turns down and he glances at Cas.

"Let's just give Cas some air," Sam quickly adds. "He and Dean aren't going anywhere."

Sam takes the kid inside, and Cas starts to curl in on himself again. With a gentle hand on his elbow, Dean guides him to a pair of rickety, wooden lawn chairs set outside the cabin. Cas practically stumbles into one, face drawn and pale, eyes haunted. Dean takes the seat next to him and doesn't speak for several long minutes, just listens to Cas fight to get his rattling breathing under control.

"An entire _year_ ," Cas gasps, on the verge of a strangled sob.

"Yeah," Dean murmurs. "He- he didn't hurt you, did he? I mean, aside from the…"

Cas shakes his head and says quietly, "No. He never hurt me."

Dean thinks physical pain would have been easier for Cas to take.

"What now?" Cas asks hoarsely.

Dean's not sure. "What do you want to do?"

Cas's expression turns pained. "I- I don't know."

He's had his free will stripped for the past year; it must be hard to suddenly have agency again.

Dean clears his throat awkwardly. "That kid, uh, Dylan, seems attached to you. And he seems…I don't know, was his apology genuine?"

Cas's brows knit together, and his hands clench and unclench in his lap. "Yes," he whispers, albeit tentatively.

Okay, so the kid has a moral compass, it looks like. He realized he was wrong and proceeded to fix it by letting Cas go. That has to count for something.

"So you've been a good teacher," Dean says.

Cas's pensive frown has turned thoughtful. "I…maybe." He squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head back. "Dean, what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to go forward? This…" He looks down at himself with disgust. "I heard you, I heard you say how I've always fought for free will. Yet I've never had it. Is this all I really am? Putty to be shaped to someone else's will?"

Dean leans forward and clasps his forearm. "No," he says gruffly, firmly. "No. You do have free will, Cas. Even when someone else tried to take control, you were still in there. You fought. And here, you chose to teach Dylan how to help people. That was all you, not him."

Cas still doesn't look convinced.

Dean swallows. "And…and you have a choice now. To continue teaching this kid, raising him. Or not. And whatever you decide, Cas, me and Sam will back you."

Cas jerks his head up in surprise. "You would care for Lucifer's offspring?"

"If you truly believe that kid is good, then yes," Dean replies without hesitation, even though he's not sure it's the right thing to do. "We can all go back to the bunker. But if you need time, Cas, me and Sam will find another place for him, a foster family or something."

It'd have to be someone who knew about the supernatural, someone who could handle something as powerful as a nephilim…which, shit, does not leave a lot of options.

Cas must realize this, too, because his expression pinches. "I…I don't think there's anyone else."

No. No, there probably isn't.

"Are you up for it?" Dean asks, nodding toward the cabin door.

A muscle in Cas's jaw jerks and he sucks in a harsh breath. "I…I'm willing to try," he finally says hesitantly, but with a tenor of that staunch resolve Dean is used to hearing in his friend, and it gives him hope.

Dean knows it won't be easy. But then, neither was the past eight years. They still somehow all came through it, though, and cemented their family unit. Because it starts with a choice. A choice to stand firm, to fight, to try.

And from there…well, they'll see how it goes.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: A few people asked for a continuation of this, and the muse was more than willing! And this way Cas gets some much-needed and deserved closure. ^_^**

 **Thank you Miyth and 29Pieces for beta reading!**

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Every last fiber of Castiel's instincts are screaming at him to run, to get as far away from here as possible. His stomach feels as though it's been shredded and the pieces twisted into knots, and his heart pounds painfully against his ribs as he approaches the cabin door. It's like dragging himself through a quagmire.

Dean is right behind him, a solid, bolstering presence. The hunter is guarded, but somehow unafraid. Castiel tries to draw strength from that.

Taking a deep breath, he reaches for the knob and forces himself to push the door open. He's spent the past several months living in this cabin, calling it home, but now its rugged walls feel like a prison. It's difficult to rove his gaze over the interior and see anything else, even though he can look at the small table near the kitchenette and remember sitting with Dylan and teaching him how to read and write in Enochian, Latin, and English. There's a bed in the far corner where Castiel had tucked Dylan in every night and told him a story to fall asleep to—usually one of the Winchesters' many heroic deeds and adventures.

Castiel's stomach cramps more violently. Everything about this place is quaint and picturesque, but it makes his skin crawl. Sam and Dylan are at one of the windows, the boy showing the gigantic man the various pieces of stained glass mobiles he had made. Dylan had been the one to first use his power to crystallize sand, but Castiel had guided him in how to make it into carefully crafted art. The child had even given some as gifts to a few of the townspeople. Had…had that been Castiel's idea, or Dylan's?

Sam and Dylan look over at his entrance, and Dylan's eyes light up. He jumps down from the chair he's standing on and runs over. Castiel goes ramrod still, and might have fled if it weren't for Dean standing directly behind him, blocking the exit. Castiel grits his teeth and forces himself not to react, not to agitate this immensely powerful being who could obliterate the Winchesters with a snap of his tiny fingers. His mind is a roiling maelstrom of conflicting sensations, current horror colliding with memories of smiles and laughter. Castiel can't tell what's real and what's not, and it paralyzes him further.

"Sam really likes the stained glass we made," Dylan tells him with a beaming smile. Castiel knows he should say something, do something. Pat Dylan on the head or at least smile back. He can't.

"Dean, do you want to see?" Dylan asks, turning his attention toward the older Winchester. Castiel suddenly feels the urge to grab Dean and shove him away from the boy, but he doesn't. He sees an image of Dylan proudly completing his first piece, hears his own voice ask the sweet child where he would like to hang it. It's like he's living in two different worlds, and the pressure in his skull of trying to reconcile them is getting to be too much.

"Sure," Dean says, and gently nudges past Castiel.

He and Sam pass each other in the middle of the room, and then Sam is coming up to Castiel, expression simultaneously overjoyed and concerned. He reaches out to squeeze Castiel's shoulder. Sam doesn't say anything, but his eyes convey it all—Castiel was missed; they had worried about him; neither of them blame him for his actions or are holding a grudge. Castiel tries to focus on that, and miraculously manages the barest fraction of a smile. Sam returns it, and then clears his throat to address the others.

"I was able to order pizza," he says. "Should be here in fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes seems like an eternity in which Castiel doesn't know what to do with himself. Technically, he is the host here and Sam and Dean are the guests, but Castiel can't for the life of him figure out how to move. He sees Dean casting him furtive glances as Dylan goes on and on about the items in their 'home'. Sam doesn't move from Castiel's side.

"What- what's happened while I was…away?" Castiel asks quietly.

Sam's eyes darken with sorrow for a moment before he masks it, but Castiel's throat tightens with the foreboding sense that they've gone through something terrible…and Castiel hadn't been there for his friends, his family.

Sam clears his throat. "Some stuff with the British Men of Letters. They're no longer around. Mostly we were looking for you."

Castiel drops his gaze. He should feel warmed by the Winchesters' steadfast devotion, even when Castiel had essentially abandoned them, but mostly he just feels hollow. Like Dylan had scooped out the core of his essence and filled it with this fake…thing. What had Dean called him? A Stepford wife. A wind-up toy. Is there even anything left of himself to properly raise Dylan? Or is he just a husk now? Incapable of being what a child—or his family—needs.

"I tried clay once," Dylan says boisterously, and then giggles. "I like how squishy it is! Until you bake it. Then it gets hard and crackly." He goes to a small end table and picks up a ceramic figurine, more of a blob with appendages, really. One of the legs is chipped, and the left arm is melded with the torso. The right had accidentally broken off at some point, but it bears an arching wingspan, albeit chipped as well. The paint has been put on clumsily, lots of beige slivers left uncovered by black brush strokes and cerulean blue.

Dylan holds it up to Dean, who takes it gingerly.

"Huh," Dean says. "Is that…Cas?"

"Yup! I made it for him."

Castiel remembers that day.

 _They'd gone into town so he could begin teaching Dylan about humans and their ways. And then he'd gotten distracted by a woman who'd insisted on gushing over Dylan, and somehow the boy had wandered off. Castiel had been nearly frantic searching for him, but finally found him around the corner in an older gentleman's pottery shed where he was giving a class to a group of children. Dylan, of course, was gifted as a quick study, and was just finishing his figurine when Castiel entered. Then Dylan had proudly presented his work to Castiel, saying all the other children were making presents for their parents, and he wanted to do the same. Castiel had been touched, and after a gentle reprimand for disappearing like that, had taken Dylan to a nearby store to buy some paint._

Castiel gives himself a rough shake to wrench himself free of the memory. He doesn't want those invasive, seditious feelings. They're not _his_. They belong to someone else.

Dylan's face suddenly falls as he contemplates the ceramic angel. "It's not very good, is it?" Dylan turns toward him. "Do you want me to make you a nicer one, Castiel? I can make you something better."

Castiel jolts at the almost desperate pleading in the boy's tone, as though Dylan is willing to do anything to regain Castiel's affection. It takes his already warped view of the world and tilts it again.

Sam and Dean are gazing at him intently, though Castiel can't begin to discern what they want him to do. Or maybe that's it. Sam's eyes almost seem to be encouraging, while Dean's expression is carefully neutral. He, at least, is not going to tell Castiel what to do. Dean wants him to choose his next action.

He swallows against a lump in his throat, and attempts to draw upon that memory again, to tap into the eddy of feelings and emotions he's honestly too afraid to embrace, but thinks he needs to if he's ever going to get past this point and do what needs to be done in taking care of this nephilim child.

"No," Castiel says, voice gravelly. He pauses to compose himself. "No, it's beautiful just the way it is."

And he thinks, perhaps, even if only on a small level for now, he means it.

Dylan purses his mouth and angles his gaze back toward the statue in Dean's hands. "But it's not perfect. And it's broken."

Castiel shifts his weight. "That's what makes it beautiful," he says, and recalls all the times he's tried to convince other angels of this very thing. "Flaws emphasize beauty."

Dylan cants his head at him. "How?"

Castiel falters for a moment as he grasps for a way to explain it. "In Japanese culture, there's an art called 'kintsukuroi.' They repair pottery with gold or silver lacquer, because they believe that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken."

Dylan considers this for a moment. "Is it the same for people?" he finally asks, and Castiel finds himself startled by the boy's insight.

"Yes," Castiel replies. There are no two greater examples than the men standing in this cabin with them.

Sam and Dean are looking at him, both with an emotion Castiel can't quite identify.

Dylan carefully takes the ceramic angel from Dean and brings it over to Castiel. "Can we get some silver to fill the cracks?" he asks tentatively.

"If you want," Castiel says. "But it doesn't need it."

Dylan nods firmly. "Yes, it does. I wanted to make it to look like you."

Castiel blinks, unsure how that relates.

Dean's lips, however, are curving upward slightly, the first genuine glimpse of lightness he's expressed since arriving. "Hey, kid's pretty smart."

Castiel frowns down at the ceramic angel, suddenly uncomfortable with the parallel he'd unintentionally drawn. Because now he can't un-see the similarities, can't look at the chipped and contorted statue without feeling the brittle cracks inside himself. There's no silver to mend those fissures with.

"Cas," Sam says softly. "No matter what you've been through, you've always come out stronger for it."

 _You will this time, too_.

Castiel isn't sure he believes that. But he desperately wants to.

He hears the crunch of gravel outside. It's the pizza delivery. Sam pays the driver and gives him a tip, and then carries the box over to the small table and flips the lid open. The aroma of baked bread crust, melted cheese, and sizzling sausage waft up to permeate the entire cabin.

"Okay, Dylan," Dean says almost cheerfully. "Time for your first lesson in gourmet American cuisine." He pauses as he looks at the pizza. "Sammy, what is that?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Green bell peppers. Get over it. You think I'm going to let you turn this kid against vegetables?"

Dean scowls, and slides out a slice to put on one of the plates that came with the order. He hands it to Dylan. "Careful, it's hot."

Dylan's eyes are wide like saucers as he takes in the pizza. He fumbles with picking it up by the wider end, but Dean leans over to help. Castiel can only watch dubiously. He's actually concerned Dylan will only be able to taste molecules and that the experience will be unpleasant. He doesn't want this to trigger mistrust of the Winchesters.

But after the boy takes a small bite and chews carefully, his face breaks into a beaming smile, and he shoves a bigger portion into his mouth.

"Mhmp, 's good!"

"Told ya," Dean says, and takes a slice for himself, as does Sam.

Castiel watches awkwardly as the three of them eat.

"Don't you want some, Castiel?" Dylan asks.

"No, thank you."

The pizza disappears quickly, and Dylan goes off to play with some of his toys, leaving the adults to sit around the table and discuss their next move.

"So, head back to the bunker?" Dean posits.

Castiel yearns for his room there. It may be sparse and more of an underground cell than this cabin that gets sunlight and has birds chirping outside the window, but it's _home_.

"Are you and Sam sure?" he asks, because he's still not.

"Would you rather stay here?" Sam responds.

Dean doesn't look thrilled by the idea, but nevertheless shrugs. "I mean, if you're more comfortable here, we can get a motel room in town. It's not far."

"No," Castiel says quickly, then checks himself. "I mean, no, I'm not more comfortable here." He sags slightly. "But Dylan might be."

Sam's expression turns thoughtful. "Yeah, maybe. But this place isn't that small. Me and Dean can take turns staying nights here with you two while the other stays at a motel."

Castiel starts. It seems out of the way and inconvenient for them, and yet Castiel is more overcome by a sense of gratitude that they would so willingly suggest it. He hadn't realized how afraid he is of being alone.

 _"I don't want to be alone."_

Castiel thinks that maybe he understands a little more.

He catches movement in his peripheral vision, and turns his head to find Dylan climbing up to stand on the bed as he reaches for a book off a high shelf.

"Shoes off the bed, Dylan," Castiel automatically says, and then freezes, because he's told the boy that before, and the words echo in his ears like ghosts from the haunted past.

Dylan hastily jumps down. "Sorry," he says sheepishly, but he has his book, and settles down on the floor to read it.

Castiel turns back to the Winchesters, dazed and confused. The brothers, however, are looking at him in something like barely concealed amusement. "What?" he asks self-consciously.

Dean shakes his head. "Nothing. Just that I wouldn't have pictured you being a stickler about shoes on the bed."

Castiel frowns. "Aren't all children taught not to climb on their beds in their shoes?"

Dean shrugs. "Hell if I know."

Castiel reconsiders the rule. He'd implemented it because he was sure it came up in all of the stories involving children that Metatron had downloaded into his brain so long ago. And it seemed a sound regulation; shoes were worn outside and they tracked dirt inside, which could be swept off the floor, but cleaning it off the bed took more work, not to mention it could transfer to clothes and hair when anyone laid down on the bed. Castiel didn't see any reason for such limitations to not be followed. So he would keep the rule.

Wait… _he_ had established that rule. From his own set of knowledge. Was…was Dean right, that despite being influenced by Dylan, part of Castiel had still been acting as he normally would have, had he chosen to care for the child of his own volition?

He mulls that over more carefully, turning the idea around and around, examining it from every angle. It isn't just the 'no shoes on the bed'—Dylan had a bedtime that Castiel ensured he followed every night, Castiel made the boy clean up his toys and put them away when he was done. There was never an instance when, overcome with a child's tantrum, Dylan had used his powers to change Castiel's mind about those things. Castiel closes his eyes as another memory surfaces.

 _Dylan was sitting under a tree, using a stick to poke a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest and broken its wing._

 _"Dylan, what are you doing?" Castiel asked with stark disapproval._

 _The boy had canted his head up at him. "It can't fly."_

 _"Why are you hurting it?" Castiel demanded._

 _Dylan's brow furrowed, and he glanced back at the bird. "Isn't it going to die anyway?"_

 _Castiel crouched down to the child's eye level. "Alone like this, yes, it will. But it's not alone. You found it."_

 _Dylan's expression pinched further as he considered the baby bird cheeping pitifully in the dirt. After several moments, he reached out a tiny hand and laid it over the helpless creature. When he drew his hand back, the broken wing was mended. The baby bird gave a loud chirp, and with a strenuous flap of its brand new wings, it managed to take flight into a brand new world._

 _Castiel smiled at Dylan. "See? There was a reason you found it."_

 _Dylan grinned back at him. "Like you found me."_

"Cas, you okay?" Dean's voice breaks through Castiel's thoughts.

"Yes," he says, forcing his eyes open. And each time he says it, it feels a little more like truth. Maybe…maybe he can do this after all.

"I think we should stay here for a few days at least," he goes on. "There are still some people in town Dylan can help."

Dean nods as if he has no argument, and Castiel has never been so grateful for the deference. This is his plan, his choice. He will not be crushed by the events of the past year.

Castiel stands and makes his way over to Dylan. The numbness in his limbs is slowly being replaced with strength and resolve. Castiel sits on the bed, and Dylan looks up from where he sits on the floor, open hope in his eyes.

"You're staying with me, right, Castiel?"

"Yes." He tries to summon up the confidence of the authority figure he'd apparently been. "But I need you to promise me something, Dylan. Promise you will never use your powers to influence someone's mind again."

Dylan bobs his head earnestly. "I promise!"

"I mean it," Castiel presses. "Not to _anyone_. Just because you have the power to do something doesn't mean you should."

Dylan gets to his feet so he's eye level with Castiel. "Like how hands can break bone or put it back together," he says, splaying his tiny fingers in front of Castiel.

"Yes." Castiel's breath catches in his throat for a brief moment, and then he carefully reaches out to clasp Dylan's hands. "You have so much power inside you, Dylan," he says soberly. "And that comes with great responsibility."

The boy nods. "I can be good, like you. I want to be like you." He abruptly throws his arms around Castiel's neck, and though Castiel's heart seizes, he doesn't push the child away. He just sits there, feeling steadier than before, but still unsettled by the proximity. He wonders if the feeling will ever go away.

He also hopes that he's chosen the right path. For once.

* * *

Things fall into a tentative routine. True to their word, Sam and Dean alternate staying the night in the cabin with Castiel and Dylan while the other retires to a motel after dinner. During the day, both Winchesters are there, fitting seamlessly into the daily doings that Castiel and Dylan had already established over the past several months.

Sam takes up tutoring Dylan in his studies, adding math to the agenda. Dean brings a different thing for lunch every day for the boy to try, and Dylan delights in it all. He asks if they can grow their own fruits and vegetables, which Dean just shakes his head at but Sam says is a good idea. Dean also brings a baseball and gloves and teaches Dylan how to play catch.

And Castiel…he wavers on a precarious precipice, sometimes able to resume his role in Dylan's education, continuing their art projects which Dylan has always loved, but sometimes needing to retreat outside and collapse under a tree when it feels like the air in the cabin is too close and will implode his vessel's lungs.

In those moments, either Sam or Dean always manage to nonchalantly follow him, to take a seat on the ground beside him and press a shoulder or hand against his, just to assure him they're there.

"You're okay," Dean tells him, again and again, and Castiel syncs his breathing to the cadence of that promise until he believes it and can get up off the ground.

Less than a week passes in this holding pattern before it all falls apart.

Angels show up at the cabin, having traced the tales of miracles just as the Winchesters had. They come with angel blades brandished and hardened glints in their eyes.

"Castiel," one of the three sputter. "What are you doing? Why have you not handled the abomination?"

"Dylan, go inside," Castiel says sharply, and small footsteps patter up the porch steps. Sam and Dean emerge, their own weapons drawn.

The angels gape at him incredulously.

One of the others sneers. "Of course," he spits venomously. "What else would you expect from this traitor?"

"There's a lot you don't know," Castiel tries to tell them. "The child is not the threat we all feared."

Castiel's heart clenches. Or, he has the potential to be, but that is not justification for condemning him. Dylan is learning to be good.

" _Lucifer_ ," the same angel hisses like it's a curse, which it is. Castiel has, after all, heard the angels whisper his name as the new Lucifer when Kelvin first took him back to speak with Joshua. And now they're both dead.

The angel moves forward. Castiel has yet to draw his blade, but the instant the Winchesters respond and they are thrown through the air, Castiel can no longer remain passive. He drops his blade into his hand. But whether his reflexes have dulled from living a year of peace or he is still too shattered inside, he barely blocks the first strike. Steel screeches and the third angel swoops in as well, knocking Castiel to the ground. Silver glints in sunlight above his head.

"No!"

There's an explosion of light and whomp of concussive power that blows the angels through the air to land several feet away. And then Dylan is throwing himself on top of Castiel and clinging to him. Castiel can feel the child's power crackling along his skin, but he stares in stupefaction at the sheer terror in the boy's eyes.

Dylan turns to face the other angels, eyes glowing gold and dark hair billowing in the resulting static. Castiel reaches up to embrace him in return.

"Dylan, don't."

"They want to hurt you. I won't let them hurt you."

Everything is whirling too fast for Castiel to comprehend, but he tries to focus. "They don't know better," he insists, and he swallows hard. "I'll keep you safe. But you have to let them go."

He marvels at the contrariness of the statement, because in this moment, he's not the one doing the protecting.

Dylan's mouth pinches fiercely. The angels are starting to get up, and Dylan's eyes flash gold even brighter. Castiel tenses, but instead of the angels exploding into dust, they simply freeze, paralyzed. Castiel can see their eyes widen and dart around in panic. Dylan has kept his promise, and didn't touch their minds.

Castiel slowly gets to his feet and lifts Dylan into his arms. "It's alright," he says. "We're fine." He looks to Sam and Dean as they get up as well. Wordlessly, they all head for the Impala.

Castiel feels a twinge of regret at abandoning the cabin, of leaving behind Dylan's art work, and the little ceramic angel sitting on the small end table. Maybe they'll come back for them.

They all climb into the car, Castiel in the backseat with Dylan, the Winchesters up front. The angels remain powerless statues.

The Impala rumbles to life, and Dean does a quick one-eighty to speed them out of there, probably back to the bunker. Castiel looks down at Dylan still clinging to him. Tears are streaming down the boy's cheeks, and he buries his face in Castiel's coat. Castiel wraps an arm around him and holds him close.

And for the first time, his fears and doubts and burbles of unease are silent.

For the first time, he starts to believe that this, right here, is real.


End file.
